


The Dilemma of Rhubarb Pies

by Wishful_Thinker_and_Procrastinator



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishful_Thinker_and_Procrastinator/pseuds/Wishful_Thinker_and_Procrastinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago, when Bitty had first declared rhubarb pies to be dedicated for lonely and single hockey players, he didn't know that they would eventually be baked with a certain hockey captain in mind.  Or that the hockey team might create an Operation Get-Jack-Zimmerman-Out-of-the-Closet for the exact same purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dilemma of Rhubarb Pies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanisLuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisLuka/gifts).



> For Georgia.  
> I apologize that this story was a little late. Planning to post this during the last week before break had been a very bad idea on my part. Additionally, this may or may not have been written during the wee hours of the morning, so please ignore any OOC-ness or bad grammar.  
> All credit goes to the Check Please! webcomic.  
> Enjoy!

There are millions of ways to say "I love you."  For some, it might consist of a quick "Wear a coat," or a last minute "Be safe," or a rare "Don't get arrested 'cause I'm not paying your bail" kind of a thing.

For Eric Richard Bittle, it was "Eat more protein."  Well, at least that was what said hockey player _hoped_ it meant, but he could never tell with Jack Zimmerman.  Take, for example, that one instance when our almost-five-foot-seven southern gentleman was lamenting on his looming finals in his haven of a kitchen, accompanied by none other than his stoic captain.  Bitty had almost felt bad for having to unload his exam stress on Jack, but what else was he supposed to do?  Study for that calculus class in which he was supposedly enrolled?

Bitty had nearly pursed his lips at the thought.  Studying was for the weak; baking was for the strong.  Derivatives fail in providing the formula for the perfect pie crust--not that Bitty needed such a thing, mind you--thus proving calculus to be utterly and totally useless.  It was a shame that others did not see it that way.  "Seventeen," Jack had matter-of-factly mentioned during the course of the conversation  "That's the number of pies you baked in September.  In case you were wondering where your time went."

Really now, what was Bitty supposed to do with this development?  Should he interpret it as "I find this whole baking thing attractive and you should totally wear aprons more often," or more along the lines of "Seriously, Bittle, just. . .why seventeen?"  Crimping the edges of the crust for his eight December pie--yes, Jack had started a new countdown for the month--Bitty bitterly concluded that it was probably the latter.  His secret crush finding him even remotely dashing was too much for his little pastry heart to hope for.

"Stupid Canadians with their stupid hockey skills and stupidly-darn good looks. . ." Bitty muttered under his breath, a long string of insults flowing from his mouth in an unceasing mantra as he continued molding his crust.  "Why do they have to be so freakin' oblivious?"  Another angry crimp of the dough  "And emotionless"  A forceful spin of the platter for good measure. "But inwardly caring."  Finally reaching the end, he looked down at the misshapen crust for his rhubarb pie, famous for consoling single, blond figure skaters, and promptly burst into a furious bout of tears.  _Oh gracious, they were manly tears._

It seemed as if years elapsed in those few minutes, the only indications of passing time being a few muffled hiccups and sobs, punctuated every once and a while by the shrill beeping of an oven.  Yet, as all moments seem to be interrupted by the arrival of a new predicament, Bitty was swiftly lurched from his emotional breakdown with the sound of footfalls emanating from the Haus hallway.  He hastily gathered himself together, straightening his posture and forcefully rubbing the wetness from his eyes.  _Please don't come in please don't come in please don't come in--_

Unfortunately (or fortunately for a certain Jack Zimmerman), Bitty was not graced with powers of mind control, and thus, the footsteps gathered in volume before the figure in question appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Hey, do you need any hel--Fucking hell, Bits!"  Shitty exclaimed as he peeked around the doorway, catching a glimpse of a watery-eyed Bitty glaring at a mangled pie crust.  "What happened?"

Bitty sniffled.  "Too much water in the dough, that's all," he replied, letting Shitty take the platter from his shaking hands before he crossly threw it out the window.  Self-pity, despair, and anger knotted deep in his stomach as he turned away from the counter; he hated how a superficial thing like unrequited affection could make him feel such deep, wretched emotions that hurt worse than any hip check.  "Nothing I can do to fix it.  You can just throw it out and I'll--I'll just make a new one, I guess."  He stiffly waited, arms petulantly crossed, for the _thunk_ of the trash lid, the satisfying sound of the dough plummeting to its death.  However, only silence met his ears.

"Come on, Shitty, I mean it," Bitty said, letting his arms hang limply and beginning to face his friend.  "I'll start from scratch, and we can forget this ever happened."  Shitty merely raised an eyebrow, holding the crust over the trash bin and bedecked full boxer-glory, truly a sight to behold.  "It'll be fine, alright?"  Still, the senior did not look convinced; if anything, his brow rose further as he gently set the pan back onto the counter.

His mustache twitched.  "If I'm not mistaken, Bitty," Shitty began, "And I know I'm not, thanks to all those late night pie lectures that you forced upon me, but this is indeed a rhubarb pie."

Though still mourning his lack of a love life, Bitty felt his chest suddenly grew warmer.  So the boys did study his _Pie 101_ lessons after all!  He opened his mouth to speak, eager to finally say something that wasn't wet with tears and to also express his joy that someone else knew of the singular consistency of rhubarb pie dough. . .

Yet, as was the case with many of his baking rants, Bitty was quickly hushed with a wave of Shitty's arm.  "Don't even go there, man.  I know what that little confectioner mind of yours is thinking, but all I saw was the rhubarb filling.  That could have been apple pie dough for all I knew, but that is not the point that I want to make."

Again, Bitty was prepared to explain the minute differences of pie crusts for his friend's own benefit, steeling himself to delve into the harmonies of dough versus filling and even _crimping._   His fingers began to twitch in anticipation.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bits!  Listen to me here: why were you making a rhubarb pie for being single?"  Those words stopped Bitty in his pastry-clouded tracks, and he slowly leaned against the counter for support.  He knew exactly why he chose rhubarb as his pie of choice that morning.  Because Jack had someone else for Winter Screw.  Because Jack would leave next year.

_Eat more protein._

Because Jack would never see him as more than a friend.  He would meet someone else after Samwell, and even find another better hockey player to replace the blond on the ice.  Those morning checking practices would only last so long, and Jack never needed him anyways

_Eat more protein._

Because Jack would never like him, let alone love him _._

_Eat more protein._

"Jack Laurent Zimmerman, you idiot," Bitty murmured dully, having slid his back down the cabinets to rest on the cold floor.  He dumbly sat there, staring at the wood grain and idly picking at the loose threads of his hoodie until a body moved right next to his and snaked an arm across his shoulders.  As he turned his head, he caught a glimpse of Shitty smiling, his moustache curved upwards.

"You do not know how long I've waited to hear you say that, Bits."

 

* * *

  

"Operation Get-Jack-Zimmerman-Out-of-the-Closet is now in session!"

" _Shitty, put some pants on, you fucker!_ "

"Eh, he's fine without them."

" _LARDO!_ "

Bitty exhaled and closed his eyes against the growing brawl that was erupting in the Haus living room.  He couldn't believe this.  Thirty minutes ago, he was crying and confiding his affections for Jack to Shitty, who then called for backup.  Thirty minutes later, there was a whole operation dedicated to the cause.

Of course, an abundance of desserts was provided for the participants.  Chocolate chip cookies, Bitty had decided; he didn't feel like making any more rhubarb pies.

"Seriously, though, what's the plan?" Ransom asked, finally reunited with his mental faculties after a barrage of science finals.  Holster, normally the one to reply with a quip, had fallen asleep on the former's shoulder, drool seeping into Ransom's jacket before he shoved him onto an unsuspecting Chowder.

"That, my friend, is a very good question." Shitty had placed himself at the head of the affair, naturally, and stood at the front of the living room.  "Would you two care to contribute anything with a special edition of _Hockey Shit_ _With Ransom and Holster?_ "

Bitty swore he heard a sort of theme song drift through the air, but Ransom quickly cut it down with a "Sorry, but half of the crew is incapacitated."  He gestured grandly to the prone body of his fellow D-man, now draped over a confused Chowder's lap.

"Well, shit," Shitty stated, rubbing at the back of his neck.  "Does anyone else have any ideas?"  He glanced around the sparsely decorated room and searched for any signs of cognitive epiphanies that would miraculously solve the situation.  Blank faces stared back at him, absent of any sort of solution.  Only poor Chowder, still wriggling under the weight of the tallest team member, and Bitty, who was assisting him in his conquest of freedom, offered visible signs of life.  Shitty sighed exasperatedly.  "Honestly, people, what the hell?  Compared to finals, kicking Jack out of the closet can't be that hard--"

Everyone groaned in unison.  "Or maybe not," he finished lamely and collapsed into the nearest chair.

Somehow, Bitty guessed that this might happen as he helped Chowder escape from the confines of the disease-ridden green couch and the sleeping Adam Birkholtz.  But really, how to pull people out of closets, Bitty didn't have a clue; he had discovered his sexuality pretty early and just walked out of the closet on his own.  But, pulling a six-foot-one hockey player with a history of Winter Screw girls and a prestigious NHL future?  That would take some work.

"Y'all, don't worry about it," Bitty began, trying to dissipate the depressed atmosphere.  "It's fine, really.  If it happens, it happens, I guess.  We should leave this to Jack to decide; it is his life, after all." Giving a final tug, he yanked Chowder from the cushions.  That couch seriously needed to be replaced, pronto.

"Thanks, Bitty.  I owe you one." Chowder said, stretching his legs and reveling in his newfound freedom.

Bitty waved a hand.  "Don't worry about it.  Though if you do want something to do, you can always help me take the second batch of cookies out of the oven. . . Chowder?"  The freshman was looking out the front window with a thoughtful expression.  "Chowder?"

The other jumped, startled away from his discovery outside.  "Sorry, Bitty.  Just saw something interesting.  What did you say?"  Bitty repeated his question, but Chowder politely declined.

"I just remembered something that I needed to do, suddenly," he said hesitantly, inching towards the front door.  "Sorry, Bitty, but I'll come help as soon as I get back, okay?  Okay, right.  See ya!." And with that, he ran out of the Haus.

"Well, that was anti-climatic," Shitty remarked, still slumped in his chair.  "But, then again, it is Chowder that we're talking about." 

Ransom paused.  "But I thought we were meeting about Jack.  Are we just giving up on that front?  'Cause he totally needs to get his ass out of that closet."

"Giving up is for losers," mumbled Holster, drowsily.  But before anyone else could ask him for his solution to the matter, he was asleep again.

Lardo nodded.  "I agree, getting Zimmerman's little ass--"

"His ass is not little, Lardo."

" _You guys know what I mean!_ "

Bitty took this as his cue to leave and check on the cookies in the oven.  Now that everyone was getting hyped up again, he knew things were going to get nowhere.  Still, at this point, Bitty was resigned to that outcome because, after all, he didn't _need_ Jack.  He never _needed_ Jack Zimmerman.  However, he did need these chocolate chip cookies to be done.  _Perfect_ , he deemed them, marveling at their golden color in the oven as he tied his apron strings and whipped on his oven mitts with a flourish.  He was ready.

The creak of Betsy's door did nothing to hide the jiggle of the front door handle, however, and the hockey team scrambled to the windows to see who was the new arrival.

"Shit, it's Jack," yelled Shitty.  "Disperse!"  And so they did.  Hockey players, and their manager, ran every which way, ducking, dodging, even hip checking the old green couch to scramble out of the room.  They were gone in a flash, and when Bitty peered into the room with a plate of fresh cookies, only Holster lie asleep on the couch.

"Geez," he muttered, nibbling on one.  "You'd have thought that I had turned on Beyónce full blast or something."  He looked over at the door, bracing himself to greet the object of that morning's breakdown, but was pleasantly surprised to see Chowder nearly bounce in the hallway.

"Why, hello again, Chowder.  Where did you run--Oh."  Bitty hesitated, staring at the person behind his beloved freshman.  "Hello, Jack.  You're home early."

Said hockey captain shut the door, dropping his back and unzipping his coat in the process.  "Hey, Bittle.  Uh," he paused while taking one arm out of a puffy sleeve and looked around the Haus in amazement.  "Where is everyone?"

Bitty only shrugged, still holding on to the cookies with slightly trembling fingers.  "Beats me.  They all ran upstairs to do stuff, probably."  Jack only hummed in response, proceeding in the removal of his coat.

"Must have been something important." Jack said, hanging up his coat and turning towards Bitty.  "What is it today?" he asked, pointing at the plate

"Chocolate chip cookies," Bitty gingerly started, but he could feel the nervousness start to bubble up in his chest.  "But, um, it didn't quite begin that way.  I mean, today started out as a rhubarb pie day, but then that _really_ backfired.  Like, my own personal apocalypse kind of a thing.  So then, I had to switch gears and I had just gotten these _amazing_ chocolate chips in my care package and wanted to try them out and turns out they are absolutely wonderful when mixed in the dough, like, the perfect mix of melty and just sweet heaven above.  Um. . ."  He just noticed that Jack was staring, confusion painted on his face.  "Do you want to try one?"

Jack went to refuse, Bitty could tell, but he then turned to look at Chowder, who seemed to be mouthing words of encouragement.  "Fine," Jack said, averting his eyes with a slight flush.

Okay, Bitty was completely confused now.  What on earth did Chowder tell Jack to get such a response?  He looked at Chowder, bewildered, but his cherished little goalie only gave an exaggerated wink.  What was that supposed to mean, Bitty wondered, but before he could contemplate such a motion, he felt a pair of soft lips upon his own.  Quite a befuddling development, but he wouldn't complain.  Especially when they belonged to a certain Jack Zimmerman, who was blushing quite dark.

For once in his life, Bitty wished that he was not holding a plate of cookies as he melted into the loving gesture.  He couldn't just drop them and risk breaking the only piece of good china that the Haus possessed, but it sure made everything awkward.  He reached up further on his toes, yearning to taste more of the chocolaty kiss, but the two were suddenly pulled apart by a excited squeal from Chowder and a "Holy hell" from Holster, who had just woken up.  The onlookers' eyes widened when they realized that their exclamations had been heard, and they rushed up the stairs.  Muffled thumping and cries of "Jack is out of the closet!" could be heard.

"Well," Bitty said, looking fondly up at Jack.  "That ought to make things interesting for a while."

The other nodded.  "You know, Bittle, I'd say those cookies are pretty good." 

Bitty quirked an eyebrow. "But you didn't even have one--Oh!" He averted his eyes and blushed even brighter.  "Yeah, I guess they are pretty decent."  Jack laughed, and Bitty soon joined in, knowing that something wonderful had just happened.

"Still, though, now that I look at you, maybe you should wear aprons more often."

"Uh-huh.  In your dreams, Jack."


End file.
